When I was a young chap, going down the streets of my parent’s flat felt like ages. It was a maze of tall, similar buildings with the smell of cements, wet paint, and foliage by the side.Everyday was an adventure, going from blocks to blocks, finding hideouts and shortcuts for whatever I may find threatening. (Such as : massive dogs, strangers)

Millionaire’s Digest Team, Contributor, Books, Writing Writer and Author of the book Bonds that Bind

When one pictures creativity the stereotype is often an artist or writer. Though these professions have creativity in common, they aren’t the only ones who can take advantage of this skill (pay special note to skill, rather than talent). People in business, lawyers, mathematicians, scientists, doctors and many others can reap the major benefits of creativity. After all, creativity is simply the ability to think outside of the box, and the ability to combine dissimilar thoughts. When expressed this way, the inherent importance of creativity is near-palpable. This article serves as a guide to deepening, or even jump-starting, your creativity.

Millionaire’s Digest Team, Contributor, Books, Writing Writer and Author of the book Bonds that Bind

Writing is a skill meant for everyone. Having access to the written word has benefited society since the beginning of history. We use writing to express ourselves, to communicate ideas to one another, and (perhaps professionally) regale others in enchanting stories. This article is for those who write, maybe even do it well, but want to actualize a need to grow.

Handwriting, related habits, hording notebooks and inspiration. How is all connected?

In one writers hidden places, a story is unailed- but what’s your story? What does your handwriting say about you? And what happens when one puts pen to paper, kicking it old school, and writing long hand?

A piece of paper on the street, beat up and torn, was attractive for some reason. I picked it up, it was partly drenched; the words were slipping off the page. It wasn’t a love note, neither was it made of words of hate. It spoke of resuscitation, but from what, I did not understand. I read it over and over again, and it remained, dampening my hand. A man bumped into me, his coffee now on my jacket. Watch it, he tells me and resumes his hustle. I forgot New York was my land. Back to the note, I read again, but why can’t I understand? Hieroglyphics shield the page, but language I understand. So I need a translator? Hire him, I can.